by Jay Smith
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – “LOVE IS A CUNNING WEAVER OF FANTASIES AND FABLES”
I don't have a lot of time to recap all that's happened. I need to keep my head, regain my focus. My focus...honestly...is my Red Molly. But I've begun to think that she is a joke, a prank perpetrated by this sick cinder block prison called “HG World .” In my weakest moments I think David and Manager Jack are in on it together ...along with Harris and Jebediah. None of them know anything about this human being I know, who Hank threatened...and is now just gone. Gone. Like dozens of people in this place. Dozens of people with lives and families documented in the files upstairs in the locked offices. My god this place will drive us to meltdown. I may be the next to go.
But I have to hold on. Focus. Remember the mission. Remember the STORY. The true story is the Fate of Red Molly. All the other tales in this crypt tell HER story. And I will tell them all if it leads me back to her. And if it leads to her corpse, then... then let the bodies hit the floor because truth and beauty are dead.
Right now, true believers, I can only report that I've gotten the newsletter off the ground and landed some fascinating interviews with the accomplished and deep-thinking management. I've been allowed access to places the general population is not and had my ass so thoroughly kissed that it still smells like Ruby's cherry lip gloss. Even by Manager Jack, whose smile makes me think he knows everything and is just waiting..
I have to get my shit together, kids. I gotta take a breath. “Just because your voice reaches half-way around the world doesn't mean you're any wiser than if it just reached across the bar.” I think that's the quote. Information must be meaningful. Fine. Let's talk about things. Let's go for some understanding, shall we?
I found out who I was just before the world decided to end. It showed me something I want more than anything... and tried to take her away. Oh, sweethearts. That's bad. Auntie Jill will not have that. Want to know why?
Until my senior year, I was pretty heavy into church activities and spent a lot of time on retreats. Between how I was raised and the weekly sermons from the Methodist Church, I was convinced that any type of physical intimacy or pleasure was a path to somewhere very bad. I wasn’t afraid of it because there was something nice about believing that one day a handsome prince would arrive and punch my ticket from the world of sundresses and play dates to the world of marital bless. I felt deep inside that when God wanted me to finally be with a boy, I would know it somehow. So I waited and let my heart guide me. As I crossed into that world of change when I’d share that one week every month with my mother that we affectionately referred to as “Shark Week” I noticed the other changes taking place in my body and how others were paying attention.
Boys started to notice me. I never responded to any of them with the same kind of enthusiasm they showed for me. I mean, boys were still bags of farts and snot so far as I could tell. By the time my friends in church began dating, I still wasn’t all that interested in them, despite evidence that some of them liked me. I wasn't the most popular girl or the prettiest by anyone's estimation, but I am pretty cute with my hair up in ribbons and a hint of “Satan’s Crayon Box” around my eyes and lips. Plus, I had boobs and the boys all had surging hormones; together a force of attraction not unlike electromagnetism.
I listened to what my friends considered hot and I appreciated the well-cut lines of our athletes in football and track. But I tended to prefer the softer lines of the pretty boys with fuller lips and softer skin, the emo Goth kids with long hair and mascara or even the pale dorky gamers from the bus. I never admitted that, of course. Typical teenager, I joined the chorus talking about how hot Dyson Reed was. I looked at my friends around me and thought a strange thought - "I wish they were boys." I didn’t really understand why at the time.
The spring of my senior year in high school, one of my best friends was this skinny goofball from my neighborhood named Kenny Kartheiser. He and I were best pals starting in second grade, but we grew apart for a while. I think I kind of spooked him when I started getting all curvy and girly. Still, we liked the same kind of weird stuff and when I joined the school newspaper my freshman year, he was my sort of unofficial partner. Kenny was one of those kids with the boyish face, long black hair in a ponytail and skin that never consumed enough sunlight at one time to get past basic factory-issue Caucasian skin tone. But he was smart and kind, especially to me. Dad didn’t like him because I guess he knew something I didn’t catch onto until that summer: Kenny had a huge crush on me.
We were watching some movie in his parent's basement when he told me and I was pleased that he worked up the nerve to admit it. In fact - as if he needed to drive the point home - he kissed me. His lips were soft on mine, so thick and full that made me want to bite on them. His hands were gentle, almost timid, but graceful as they held me. He wasn't like my first boyfriend who felt like he needed to pin me to something before we could make out...or the other one who thought tongue wrestling was a competitive sport. Kenny was tender. His words were sweet and sincere. He told me he'd been in love with me for a long time and I felt...well...very fond of him. I think I wanted him to feel loved in return, even if I wasn't sure where that love would come from. So I embraced him.
I found myself kissing him back, closing my eyes and enjoying the moment. He fumbled a bit trying to find the right position on the couch and I tried to guide him to a position where we wouldn’t get thrown down onto the bare concrete floor. Kenny was very enthusiastic and I tried to be. I felt something for Kenny, which is more than I could say for any boy to that point. But after a while, the initial thrill of discovery just…kinda….faded. But, convinced this might be that moment I’d been waiting for, I let Kenny show me he was the one God intended me to be with.
Maybe, I thought, the feelings I'd heard about are just exaggerated. Maybe they need to build up. We made out for half an hour, I guess, before he worked up the nerve to push a little further and his hands moved from my shoulders and arms to my waist and thighs, “accidentally” brushing the parts of me he really wanted to touch. It felt good to keep my eyes closed and focus on the feeling rather than the dingy basement of the glow of his television and the weird open-mouthed faces Kenny kept making. I emptied my mind of the physical reality and tried to find a spark of that primal urge deep inside me. If not Kenny, who? Dyson Reed with his chiseled abs and sparkling blue eyes didn’t do it for me. The last boy to give me pause and steal my breath as he crossed the parking lot at Sheetz...nope. Nothing. Through the stream of consciousness parade of faces, muscles and fantasies played out in the role my Kenny dutifully played for me, it was the sudden image of my biology partner, Katrina Chow that really lit my fuse. My eyes closed, the idea of kissing Katrina Chow’s pouty, glossy mouth, excited me. Suddenly, I felt something new and strange, yet overpowering that I wanted. Really bad.
I slipped my fingers around the sides of Kenny’s head, locked my fingers around back and I kissed him…not just some awkward pressing of lips, but a thorough exploration of touch and taste that made my heart race and my face flush. Kenny was startled by this, but I kept pushing. In my blissful darkness Katrina was mine and she wanted me. The feeling of being the dominant partner thrilled me so I pushed her thighs apart and pressed myself between them, leaning into the warm softness of her body. She leaned in and attacked my neck, kissing and tickling it while the rush of hot breath made me groan with this surge of pleasure I'd never experienced before. I began unbuttoning her shirt pulled her to me and felt her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. Her hands slipped up underneath my t-shirt and I felt the electricity of her hands touching my skin and sliding gracefully, but carefully towards my...
...and then I felt something else that took me out of the moment entirely. Katrina's image vanished along with the third floor biology lab back into the dingy basement. In our moments of writhing and groping, we'd worked our way into a position where I had to face the fact that this was not Katrina, but a boy who I cared for but was now
prepared…fully prepared… for something I could never give him. I felt him against me, grinding my left naked thigh with his demin-covered crotch. I was confused and frightened by both my fantasy and this new reality that a boy…ANY boy…was trying to have me…and I suddenly went limp. My hands moved from Kenny's naked chest back to his neck. He kept kissing me, moving from my neck, back to my mouth, breathing heavily and lost in his own moment of pleasure. I debated pushing him away. I was uncomfortable, but I didn't feel it was fair to him. He made the impressive and bold move to try unbuttoning my shorts, but I gently guided his hands back up my body. I was about to move his hands off of my chest when he whispered in my ear that he loved me and made one final thrust and a shake that made me fear he might have gone into one of his rare seizures. But then his body relaxed, including the grip he’d put on my tender parts and finally brought his own little fantasy to an end. As his breathing eased and he worked himself onto the sofa next to me, I kept my eyes closed…afraid of what I’d feel when I saw him.
Sure, guys will say anything in a passionate rush, but Kenny was serious. He told me he loved me right at the start – before any touchy-gropy stuff started. He opened himself to share something that both scared and thrilled him – and I responded by giving myself to him physically, but I wanted nothing from him in return. I wondered how he would feel to know the passion I brought to give him that kind of pleasure was meant for a woman he probably didn't even know.
I was actually disappointed that he didn't do what the other two boys did when they got to that point - roll off and check their text messages. He stayed, which made me feel even lower and more uncomfortable. I finally had to open my eyes and there was my Kenny...sweet Kenny Kartheiser in the greatest moment of his life so far, with a look of total bliss that I tried my best to reciprocate. He asked me if I was okay – which I thought a little odd but sweet - and then, somewhat nervously, if I'd had the same moment he just had in his jeans. I lied and said I thought I did. I touched his face and smiled. That wasn't forced. I truly cared for Kenny. I was happy for him. And I even felt a little blessed to have someone so devoted to me. We lay together for a while after and he fell asleep during the final ten minutes of whatever it was we'd been watching. As he slept, I cried in silence...not for what had happened on that sofa, but for that final shocking realization that I didn't want Kenny or any other boy. I wanted Katrina. I wanted Mandalynne from my study group. And I realized that my unusual feelings for the dumb cheerleader dating Dyson Reed were not envy. That's how I knew I was different.
Wrestling with how to tell Kenny, I cried for a while longer and then the end of the movie woke him up. I guess he woke up to a bit of discomfort in his pants because he quickly kissed my cheek, rolled off the sofa and hustled away to the bathroom. I thought through how best to deal with the panic and the shame I felt, the disappointment in myself and the wrenching pain in my gut that was worse than Kenny’s crotch burn or the budding fear that I was some kind of abomination to my Lord and Savior. I felt like a monster for what I wanted. I thought I might be sick in the head like my pastor suggested was wrong with all gay people. I quietly hoped it was just that I was secretly scared of getting pregnant or just going too far with a boy before marriage. But deep down, I understood that I was some kind of freak with a secret, a girl with a big problem.
My first words to him when he got back were the hardest. "We have to talk," I said.
It was that night that I realized my ability to weave a convincing lie. Kenny was not what my pastor would call “a friend of the faith.” I was not ready, I claimed, to accept a lover without the Holy Spirit entering me first. Poor Kenny...he thought he'd offended me somehow. He actually apologized. What could I tell him? Be honest and say that if I thought more of him as a girl it might be okay? Maybe I'd lie a little and suggest he just didn't trip my trigger? No. In the moment, I decided to play his own beliefs against him. I asked him to pray with me for guidance. I asked him to come to a faith that neither of us believed in. In the end, he fell for the bluff and we parted friends with a special moment to share.
It’s hard enough being a teenager anywhere. I was a suburban kid in a Christian home with loving, but strict parents and I never lost touch with my blessings. But it was a cold, cruel time when I felt alone in a world that had changed around me. I felt that the Jill Woodbine I needed to show was a costume and an act. Now here I am.
Jill Woodbine. It's a byline. It's a label. Who you think I am is what I let you believe me to be. What I am? Well, true believer... you'll have to come along and find out.
Red Molly is an anchor. I've lost so much and I know that this is my attempt to protect what I think is all I have left. I can't think about mom…about anyone I've lost. We all have our triggers. I have an anchor. Red Molly, I'm coming, sweetheart. If I have to break this warehouse down block by block I will find you. Let them try and stop me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
It’s been two weeks, still no sign of Molly. But a lot of stuff has gone on meanwhile.
The HG World newsletter has ended. Everyone seemed to love it; I got a chance to meet The Mayor and even had an appointment to talk with Manager Jack. But at the last minute, Jack canceled and the day after I asked Ruby for the third, polite time to reschedule, the plug got pulled on my whole Wall of Weird. No more newsletters. No more access to special places. Of course, no one told me. They just changed the codes on the copier. My key to the school room still works, but my access to the site’s records archive is now limited. Something strange is afoot.
Lucky for me I have Ruby’s credentials – she writes her password on a post-it stuck to her desk – and can get to whatever I need for right now. When I asked Ruby about why we were giving up on the paper, she gave me that giggly sing-song full of lies about budgets and time and the “mysteries of management decisions .” But as a parting gift for all my hard work, they moved me from my little quad-dorm cot out into the Garden Section.
I moved out to what the management calls Evans Acres yesterday into this adorable little converted wood playhouse. It looks like a little wedding chapel with whitewashed siding and a fake latticework porch and even a little picket fence. It’s the kind of upper-middle class version of the refrigerator box I used to play house in when I was little. Except this one is wired for a light, has a little kitchen, sleeping area and room for my stuff.
It’s because I was so busy with the newsletter, the subsequent move and looking for Molly that I’ve been too busy to keep up on the diary, but I've kept notes intending to come back. I have to wonder if Jack knows how much stuff I learned about operations by just asking the right people the wrong question at the most appropriate moment.
Say what you want about it, but there’s something to be said about playing up the “dumb little girl” angle for a bunch of middle-aged men who want to believe that what they do is essential for the survival of the human race. Some of the men in this place are so tightly wound that they’d tell me their darkest secrets for a quick wink and a modest forward lean. You can tell the worst ones who try so very hard not to show their interest. They forget that people have peripheral vision and their eye line drops an inch for every degree we look away from their eyes. The world hasn’t changed, brothers and sisters, but I am learning how to work within its rules every day.
The infirmary was very informative.
David’s advice to check out the “real” infirmary here was not just a casual, passing thought. I get the impression he considered long and hard about sharing that idea and I’ll tell you why: HG World is all about appearances and all about keeping people calm, like in Stephen King’s “Green Mile” where they talk about not getting the death row inmates riled up because they are all facing death and Lord knows they have nothing to lose. If O’Neal could meltdown without warning, there’s little to prevent someone – or a group of someones – thinking they were trapped like rats and storming the fire doors to the outside.
So: sick p
eople, meltdowns, the disruptive and the ones who just don’t fit in well – they’re moved to the REAL infirmary. And since I’m apparently not able to write about it for anyone else, I guess I’ll report it here.
Once the Doc decided that seeing me wouldn’t trigger another episode, I was able to visit O’Neal in what they call the Care Center. That’s where you go if you smash your finger in a door, get diarrhea or need special supplies or medicine. Very few people stay too long. There’s a quarantine section that they used when three people came down with whooping cough. That’s where O’Neal is resting now. He’s still under observation. He had some type of seizure shortly after he arrived from the roof. If your condition worsens, I’m told, there’s yet another level where the Doc might send you … as he says “just in case .” I asked Doc about that “special area” and he brushed it off saying it was “technical” and “sensitive” like that would get me to shut up about it.
I talked with O’Neal a little bit. Not sure if it was the medication or if he’s just depressed, but he spoke like there was no real life to him. He doesn't remember anything about giggling. He remembered swatting a ball off the roof and hitting one of the eaters right on the bridge of the nose. It went down in a heap, he said. After taking his bow to David and me, Queen's "We Are the Champions" started playing in his head. But he couldn't remember the lyrics. Under other circumstances he could just look up the lyrics or maybe ask someone if they had the song, but that was the start of it. He couldn’t get the tune out of his head. It just got louder and began looping as he tried to clear it out. He tried to remember his wife's face, but could only see Freddie Mercury standing next to him outside their house in Youngstown. He tried to hear her voice, but couldn't break out of the skipping record of that song, the same few bars repeated in his head in an endless loop until all his effort was pouring into "I've paid my dues...time after time...I've paid my dues...time after... paid my dues..." until he hit the ground hard and the world went dark.
